


idioglossia

by suominen



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suominen/pseuds/suominen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>id·io·glos·sia (n): a private form of speech invented by one child or by children who are in close contact</p>
            </blockquote>





	idioglossia

**Author's Note:**

> This is weird. I understand that. You'll soon understand that. It will probably get weirder before it gets better, but hopefully we can get past that and find some kind of story in this mess. Just a note/warning for this chapter--misgendering of a character. Additionally, there are two brief mentions of suicide in the fourth segment beginning with "Two days later..." (after the third set of | | | | |)--they are not important, you can skip the section if you'd like. This chapter is an introduction to the general world/backstory. Future chapters will (hopefully) be more coherent and have fewer time jumps/etc.

**MOTHER OF CLONES COMES FORWARD  
** _**Nigerian woman says she gave birth to twin clones for experiment over 20 years ago.** _

"Debbie," the woman in the pink shirt nudged her companion. "Did you see this?"

Debbie glanced at the magazine the woman in the pink shirt was holding. She scoffed. "People will say anything for some attention these days."

"Twenty years ago? Please," the woman in the pink shirt scoffed. "The CCA only passed a year ago. Impossible." She shoved the magazine back into its rack, but Debbie picked it right up again.

"Oh, look! George Clooney and his wife are having troubles in paradise!" She pointed to the bottom right corner of the magazine with a sly grin. "It's your chance, Barb!"

"Oh, hush, you."

"Robert's going to get a run for his money!" Debbie's shoulders shimmied in the way only the shoulders of more-than-middle-aged women do.

The two fell into a short fit of wishful snickers before they began emptying their grocery baskets onto the belt of the checkout counter. Eggs, ground beef, a bar of chocolate for those nights when their dessert wines just weren't enough. The magazine laid  forgotten at the stationary end of the counter, right in front of the discount gum. Neither of them had noticed the man behind them, his features as plain as his round frame glasses. Neither watched as he picked up the very magazine they had been reading and dropped it with a soft thud into his own basket. They were long gone by the time he had bagged up his groceries and chucked them without care into his backseat. The fingers of his right hand flipped through the tabloid's thin pages. The fingers of his left pressed 1.

"We've got a problem here."

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

Soon all the mothers have their own stories. They're on magazines, on news shows, in newspapers. The twelve mothers of the thirteen missing baby girls.

And then there's another with a suspiciously similar story. But she's not one of them. No, she had a boy, and he lives with her. His name is Styles Miller. He's not a clone, though. He's just a boy.

Except he's just not.

Then there's Seth Roenza.

Christopher Parsons.

Mark Rollins.

Ten more.

And lastly, Rudy Coady.

One by one they're exposed, all fifteen of them. Their pictures are on the nightly news, people recognize them on the street. They become overnight celebrities, for better or for worse.

But the question's still out there. Where are the girls? Where could they be hiding?

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

Virginia Coady, Rudy's mother in name only, knows. She's played the game for more than twenty five years, and she's finally ready to put down all her cards. She was never one for games anyway. (Rudy can attest.)

DYAD, she says.

It's all she needs to say. The speculation begins.

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

Two days later, Virginia Coady is found hanging in her remote New Mexico home.

Another week goes by. Amelia Onwediwe is found in a bathtub full of blood in her London flat.

The two suicides appear to be unrelated.

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

The man with the round frames tosses another paper clipping down onto the desk. It doesn't so much fall as float. "They're going to find out."

The balding man glances up at him. "Well, Olivier, what, exactly, do you suggest we do about that?" His irritation is evident in his glare.

The office is quiet for a minute.

"I don't know."

"Well, I suggest, then," Aldous Leekie says, shooting an apologetic look toward his co-conspirator for his underling's stupidity, "that you shut up and leave us to figure it out."

He does. Leekie and Bowles have a plan by the end of the business day.

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

The next morning the same photograph is plastered in vivid color on the covers of all the world's largest newspapers. Thirteen separate bodies. One shared face.

**DYAD GROUPS REVEALS CLONE WHEREABOUTS**

**WHO ARE THE LONG LOST CLONES OF DYAD?**

**DYAD GROUP TO OPEN DOORS OF CLONE HABITAT TO PUBLIC, ONE DAY ONLY**

Soon, everyone in the world knows their faces, their ascribed names. Some even claim to be able to tell them apart, and not just by their haircuts.

In an old but well-kept home on the north side of Toronto, Siobhan Sadler shakes her head at the newscaster's reports as she tosses another vest into her carry on bag. She can't see a difference. The fear present in all of their eyes looks just the same.

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

The big day comes. The field mice in the grasses surrounding the DYAD satellite in the isolated Canadian wilderness are trampled by reporters, scientists, psychologists, and the general public. Lines are out the door, cars parked for miles along the long forgotten county road. The excited voices of those waiting in line overpower the grumbles of those exiting the building.

"What a shit exhibit. Didn't even get to see them up close, just got to look at a stupid screen. Felt like I was watching a nanny cam."

"Why were they all just sitting in the corner? They didn't even do anything!"

"Can they even talk? Sounded like fucking gibberish to me."

Around noon, a small number of people step out of line, but with voices loud enough that their protest hymns fill the empty air.

"Clones are humans, too!"

"All people deserve rights!"

"Fuck your forbidden experiment!"

They don't last an hour before the police arrive, but it's long enough for the news to catch wind. The movement builds from there.

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

**WHAT WOULD YOU WANT FOR YOUR CLONE?  
** _**World watches as Canada Supreme Court decides Lost Girls ruling today.** _

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

They're in little groups of three or four when the door opens and five people in black suits appear.

The one with the longest hair screams.

The one with the bangs cries.

The one with the scraggly mullet steps protectively in front of the rest, but visibly shivers under the gaze of the strangers.

"It's okay, you're alright," one of the suits says in a deep voice, taking a cautious step forward. He falls right back into line when the one with the curliest hair makes a slight move. "We've come to get you out of here."

The bubble of terror does not pop with his words. They all stare vacantly, incredulously at him. He can't help but notice their confusion and terror.

He looks at the nearest one. "What's your name?"

No answer.

"Huh? Can you tell me your name?"

Still, nothing.

He turns to the next one and asks again.

No one answers. They stand petrified.

Art Bell looks them all over once more before turning to face his partner, shaking his head.

"Shit, Ang. I don't think they understand us at all."


End file.
